


Some Green Hillside

by LuvEwan



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Caretaker Qui-Gon, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, No Plot/Plotless, Sick Obi-Wan, Sickfic, Slice of Life, Worried Qui-Gon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:41:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28943112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuvEwan/pseuds/LuvEwan
Summary: Qui-Gon knows Obi-Wan is sick but there's no time for it, not until the mission is over and they're on the ship back to Coruscant.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 13
Kudos: 157





	Some Green Hillside

Qui-Gon knows Obi-Wan is sick, but there is no time for it. They are giving chase to a murderous fugitive, have been for nearly two days, zigzagging through the city until they reach its rough outskirts. They stop only when they must: for water, when they can no longer help but relieve themselves. Sleep is not an option, any more than a proper meal. Instead there are ration bars, chewed and swallowed without thought. 

He senses nothing from Obi-Wan except jaw-clenched determination and raging fever. In another situation, Qui-Gon would draw energy from himself to give the younger Jedi. He is too exhausted to even try, so he continues running, glancing at Obi-Wan when he can to access his condition.

Den Klar killed fourteen people. He is Force-sensitive and sly, wearing dampeners to dull his own presence. He knew the Spethi government would send Jedi. Except Klar cannot stand to wear the dampeners for very long; any sensitive knows the Force-blocking collars are torture devices, and when he removes them, Qui-Gon senses a dark flare that momentarily blots out everything else. 

A bloody arrow, pointing ever closer.

Den Klar is the worst kind of murderer, choosing victims at random. His path is carved by whim, too, without pattern or reason. 

He’s not sure how sick Obi-Wan has become; Qui-Gon first noticed the dull gleam in his eyes on the transport to Spethe. Jedi typically neutralized illnesses quickly. Obi-Wan had not slowed his preparations for this mission, and Qui-Gon would not have permitted the lapse. 

Sometimes, their life is harsh.

Perhaps most of the time, the Jedi Master muses. At one point, Obi-Wan kneeled in an alleyway and vomited, and Qui-Gon wondered if he needed to leave him behind. But with a dangerous, unpredictable convict, Qui-Gon couldn’t risk losing his backup. Worse, if they could sense Klar, it meant Klar could sense _them_ , and he would not abandon Obi-Wan to be found by a ruthless executioner. 

Obi-Wan had straightened, wiped his mouth and looked at his Master. A wordless confirmation, and they began their pursuit anew. 

Qui-Gon watches Obi-Wan pull at the unfamiliar collar of his civilian clothes. Their weapons are concealed, and Obi-Wan’s braid is coiled up and pinned tight against his ear. His skin is flushed. The sky darkens. Klar is likely getting tired, he wages. 

Obi-Wan needs to sleep, but they cannot. Night is their chance to close the gap. They’ve been lucky so far, in that no additional victims have been claimed. 

_Yet_ , the Master reminds himself. He cannot risk innocent lives for the sake of his apprentice’s comfort. 

But eventually they must pause, when the sky darkens, outside a ramshackle neighborhood. Their personal resources are not limitless. Qui-Gon’s joints burn along with his throat, and he drinks deeply from a water skin after handing another to Obi-Wan. 

He notices Obi-Wan drinks much more slowly, and then coughs into the crook of his arm.

Qui-Gon looks out at the neighborhood. Several of Klar’s old contacts have been spotted on the streets here, the kind of buddies who wouldn’t think twice about housing a fugitive. 

“Do you think he’s in there, Master?” Obi-Wan asks. He is all business, despite his hoarse voice and watering eyes. 

“It seems likely. I sense something...amiss.” Qui-Gon reaches out and wipes the sweat from Obi-Wan’s brow with his thumb. It is also a chance to monitor his Padawan’s fever. The heat that meets his touch is disconcerting; he considers again if Obi-Wan can handle the inevitable confrontation. 

But that only underestimates Obi-Wan’s abilities, Qui-Gon realizes. He has endured far worse. If he needs to collapse, he will wait until their mission is complete. 

This is not the time or place for more than a fleeting gesture of compassion. Qui-Gon rubs Obi-Wan’s skin behind his right ear, where the braid is concealed. He smiles at the young man, the briefest acknowledgment of his illness. 

Obi-Wan coughs again, and the intensity nearly doubles him over. He straightens, looks at Qui-Gon with a particular glint in his eye. “I could be the bait,” he suggests, in a reasonable tone. 

Qui-Gon does not find the offer reasonable. Or acceptable. 

But it is their best chance. He sighs and puts his hands on his hips, staring at the dilapidated houses, feeling an ominous foreboding along the uneven rooflines. “If he believes you are very ill, it will not matter if you are a Jedi. He will see that you are young, and alone, and for someone like Klar, sending a message to the Jedi would be irresistible.” The very thought turns his stomach. 

Obi-Wan nods. “Yes, Master.” His voice cracks, yet he does not drink more water. He is already preparing himself for his role. “Will you hide?”

“Yes, and cloak my presence as much as I can.” Qui-Gon cannot help but squeeze his apprentice’s shoulder. “I shall be nearby, Padawan.” He says, knowing he is trying to comfort himself just as much as Obi-Wan. They are accustomed to dangerous situations, and so Qui-Gon is well-aware how quickly things can escalate. “At least at this hour, there will be less of a chance of casualties.”

Their task is grim, the results uncertain. They move forward into the night.

——-

Qui-Gon watches from his vantage point, hunched behind overgrown brush near an abandoned house. Obi-Wan is looking left to right, stopping to cough, overtaken by a wracking fit. He is standing in the middle of a dim street. 

He spits on the crumbled sidewalk and then limps over to a tree, making little moaning noises as he settles against the trunk. 

Qui-Gon is not sure how much of Obi-Wan’s behavior is performance. His wet, rattling cough is more convincing than it needs to be. Qui-Gon must again set aside his concern, focus instead on that dark, spreading mass in his head. He must be transparent, and disappear into the Force. He is only shrubbery by an old house. 

Den Klar, as predicted, is unable to resist the idea of killing a Jedi. Even a dead Padawan is an impressive trophy among certain sects of criminal, and the tall, human man emerges from a distant door, sensing Obi-Wan, who is like a pure blue beacon in the Force.

Innocence.

Vulnerability.

Qui-Gon swallows with a soft click. Klar moves closer, and Qui-Gon rests his hand on his saber. He waits, waits until he sees a smile turn the corner of Klar’s mouth. 

And then Qui-Gon leaps from his hiding place, and it is over very quickly.

——-

The rest takes far longer. Local authorities swarm the street, neighbors stand in their yards to watch Klar be led away. The man is howling, as Qui-Gon had severed his left hand in the brief scuffle. 

His Padawan is answering every question with composure, arms folded across his chest, brows knit. 

An officer asks Qui-Gon if they need medical attention. He nearly says yes, but thinks better of it. Obi-Wan will prefer to get home sooner, rather than spending the night at a hospital. 

Several hours pass before the scene settles, and the Jedi’s presence is no longer required. They accept the gratitude of the dwindling group humbly. 

Qui-Gon asks if there is a speeder available to take them to the spaceport. They are able to ride with an officer, who spends the short trip asking them about the Temple, their mission, and Klar’s capture. 

Obi-Wan is slumped slightly in his seat, leaning his head over the side of the speeder. The cool night air ruffles his hair. Without the adrenaline of battle, his body seems to be surrendering to its ailment. Occasionally he coughs or clears his throat.

Qui-Gon answers the driver’s multitude of questions. When they arrive at the spaceport, Obi-Wan has dozed, and Qui-Gon gently rouses him by squeezing his knee. 

“Time to go,” he murmurs.

——

Their driver tells spaceport workers about the Jedi’s heroics in apprehending Den Klar. Suddenly their accommodations change, and they are given a private suite on the transport. 

Under typical circumstances, Qui-Gon would refuse such upgrades. _We have only done our duty, thank you_. But Obi-Wan is openly radiating pain through the Force now, and potentially contagious. Keeping him away from the rest of the passengers is the safest option. 

Obi-Wan follows him to their assigned quarters, unnaturally quiet. He has no quips to offer, his energy muted and steps slow.

They are shown to the suite and then left alone. Qui-Gon waits for the door to seal before going to his Padawan, who is standing in the center of the room, as if he has forgotten what to do next. 

Qui-Gon feels Obi-Wan’s forehead, then cheeks. He looks into bloodshot eyes. “Time for bed,” he decides. 

Obi-Wan blinks. “Do I look that bad?”

“In fact, you do,” Qui-Gon answers honestly. His typically well-kempt Padawan’s clothes sag, his skin sallow in the ship light, and dark rings circle his eyes.

The simple suite contains two beds, a private bathroom and couch. He turns the sheets down on the closest bed and pats the pillow. “There you go.”

A soft snort. “Master, I’m hardly a child. And I’m hardly dying.”

“Must you be dying to be taken care of, Obi-Wan?” 

His apprentice has nothing to say to that, allowing Qui-Gon to guide him to the bed. Obi-Wan sits and exhales. 

“It’s been a long mission,” Qui-Gon remarks as he bends over to slip off Obi-Wan’s boots. He waves down the lights and gently pushes Obi-Wan onto his back. He is surprised when Obi-Wan does not object, but relaxes into the pillow, closing his eyes. Qui-Gon unbuttons Obi-Wan’s top and loosens his pants. Then he steps back, frowning. He checks Obi-Wan’s forehead again. Perhaps he should ask an attendant if there is a doctor on board—

He feels fingers brush against his palm. “‘m alright,” Obi-Wan mumbles. His eyes remain shut. 

Qui-Gon holds the fingers within his hand. They are both run ragged. Force knows he’s exhausted, could easily sleep for the entirety of their journey home, if not for the mission report that must be drafted.

And it could be better to stay awake for awhile, in case Obi-Wan needs him. His Padawan is rarely sick, even more rarely is he sick to the point of _showing_ it. 

Already Obi-Wan’s breathing is slow and soft. Qui-Gon lays a hand on his shoulder, sending a subtle Force suggestion. 

_Sleep deeply. Feel well._

He realizes he has whispered the words aloud, too. 

——

There is a good reason Obi-Wan is in charge of mission reports. Qui-Gon wakes with a start, data pad on his chest. His heart pounds in his throat and he sits up on the narrow bed when he hears coughing, muffled from behind the fresher door—Obi-Wan. 

He wipes the cold bit of drool from the corner of his mouth. 

“Padawan?” He calls softly. When no answer comes, he rises and moves to stand outside the door. “Obi-Wan?” Louder, though not urgent yet. 

Obi-Wan tries to reply, but is choked off by a fit of retching. It sounds worrisome enough that Qui-Gon palms the door open. 

The lights are low and Obi-Wan sags over the toilet, on his knees. His undercover clothing has been discarded in a pile, leaving him in only beige, Temple-issue shorts. The exposed skin is pale and covered in a sheen of sweat. 

Qui-Gon leans down, placing a hand on Obi-Wan’s back. His apprentice is breathing quickly, shallowly. “Do you think you’re finished?” He asks. 

Obi-Wan closes his eyes and nods, but doesn’t make an effort to move. He trembles and sweats. 

“Alright,” Qui-Gon discreetly shuts the toilet lid and flushes, finds a wash rag to dab the sick from Obi-Wan’s chin. The tiny room smells sour and stale. He considers standing Obi-Wan under the shower head, just to wash off some of the sweat, but decides it’s better to get him in bed. 

He crouches down next to him and braces Obi-Wan’s shoulders with his hands. “Can you walk?”

“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan answers him instantly. His eyes don’t open and he weaves on his knees. 

Which is a _no_ , so Qui-Gon gathers him sideways against his chest. Obi-Wan mumbles a feeble protest, dutifully quiets when Qui-Gon tells him to hush. He again wonders if he should call for a doctor, but despite the alarming look and weakness of Obi-Wan, the Force remains serene, unworried. 

It tells Qui-Gon not to worry, but Qui-Gon is not that attuned with the Force, not yet, not when it comes to Obi-Wan. 

He has not had to carry his Padawan in some time. Obi-Wan is still slender, even with the added muscle from advanced training and endless missions, and an easy burden for Qui-Gon. He steadies Obi-Wan and carefully stands. “Alright.” He says, under his breath and mostly to himself. Obi-Wan’s bare legs dangle with each of Qui-Gon’s steps, and they cross from the fresher stall to the sleeping area. 

He glances down at the unmade bed, the coverlet swept aside; he imagines Obi-Wan waking from his fevered slumber and rushing to reach the fresher in time. Somehow he was quiet enough to not wake Qui-Gon, until it was unavoidable. The thought of Obi-Wan trying to vomit noiselessly disturbs Qui-Gon, and he pauses, Obi-Wan slumped and asleep in his arms. During the mission, such stoicism could not be avoided, but they are just the two of them now, in private quarters. It is a bad habit of Obi-Wan’s, never outgrown from their early days together, to shield from Qui-Gon when his pain seems inconvenient. 

Qui-Gon has lectured about the inherent dangers. He supposes he will have to give another talk, once they are safely on Coruscant, well-rested and recovered. 

Now is the time for compassion, for all the things he could not give Obi-Wan when they were in desperate, single-minded pursuit. He notices the faint stains of sweat on the sheets where Obi-Wan had been sleeping. Obi-Wan shivers against him. The fever must have burned into a chill. He can’t lay him down on damp sheets. Instead he turns to his own bed, uses the Force to move the datapad to the side table. 

Obi-Wan shakes harder. Qui-Gon wraps the robe he’s still wearing around Obi-Wan, and sits on the edge of the bed. He rubs his hands firmly over Obi-Wan’s back and arms, coaxing warmth into him. The massage elicits a faint moan from his Padawan. Qui-Gon hopes he is at least soothing some of the fever-ache. 

An uncounted amount of time passes this way. Qui-Gon is tired but it is the sort of weariness he can let settle in the back of his mind. He senses the benign energy from the other passengers, almost all of them asleep, and the strange static of deep space, roaring behind everything. Obi-Wan sinks into thick slumber, fresh perspiration on his face as the fever breaks. He is boneless against Qui-Gon. 

There is a unique trust there that Qui-Gon doesn’t take for granted. He lifts one hand to sweep Obi-Wan’s hair back, where it’s plastered to his wet, thankfully cool brow. He runs his fingers along the frazzled Padawan braid, stopping to touch each individual marker. Red, yellow, blue threads, signifying accomplishment and the overcoming of great hardships. 

Yet so many moments in a Jedi apprentice’s life are to be endured without further mention or representation. It is simply the way of things. 

He does not think his own Master remembered more than a handful of Qui-Gon’s harrowing misadventures, certainly none of his ailments. Dooku never admitted to any illness, himself, concealing symptoms beneath his smooth, cold mask. Without blood connecting them, having never even _met_ , Obi-Wan somehow takes after his Grandmaster, at least when it comes to weathering personal storms, aspiring to be unaffected by pain, by sickness. 

Qui-Gon never claims to follow in Dooku’s footsteps; he still dreams, on occasion, of the worst of Obi-Wan’s close calls. His heart still hurt when he saw his Padawan in discomfort, as it hurts now. Rather than be a Jedi, he should have raised plants on some green hillside, fostering life without a Code or guidelines. 

_You are being maudlin,_ he chastises himself. Obi-Wan would be appalled, but not really, his disapproval always accompanied by a fond gleam in his eyes. 

He should get Obi-Wan settled for the rest of the night, strip the soiled sheets from the other bed, gather up Obi-Wan’s discarded clothes and see about new linens. There is also the mission report, waiting for him to complete and send off. 

Obi-Wan sighs in his sleep. Qui-Gon looks down and pats his back. “You’re alright,” he says softly. He doesn’t move. There is life to be nurtured here, too.


End file.
